


there’s no chance for us (it’s all decided for us)

by soulborn



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Gladio, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Major Character Injury, Top noctis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 06:28:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16805272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulborn/pseuds/soulborn
Summary: Noctis knows people get hurt in the line of duty, butgods, he always hoped it would never be Gladio.





	there’s no chance for us (it’s all decided for us)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liamkosta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liamkosta/gifts).



> uhgghhggghhhghghhhhhhghgghghghghh my heart hurtie.
> 
> ( bonus: so many versus xiii references n headcanons thrown in here .. sorry )  
> ( bonus bonus: sort of edited, but not really .. whoopsies)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It happens faster than light. A flash, a yell, and a horrible whistling sound.

All Noctis knows is that Gladio has his jacket fisted in his hand and is _yanking_ back into oblivion. One second, they’re all standing around laughing at something ridiculous. The next, Noctis is sprawled flat on his ass and Gladio is bleeding.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He thinks he’s unfairly worse for wear. All the color has drained from his cheeks. He feels cold, coldest when Ignis presses fretting hands against his cheeks and fusses. There’s a persistent shrieking, ringing in his ears he can’t forget.

There is a bit of _Gladio_ on the tip of his sneakers. Noctis cries harder when he sees it, and Ignis deals with it without batting an eye. There’s tissues beneath his nose almost immediately.

They should be wiping his shoes. Wiping the floor of the bar that Noctis maybe shouldn’t have been at, wiping the gleaming knife, wiping his shaking hands. Ignis deals with him quietly and kindly though he doesn’t put up much of a fuss. The nurses said he was in shock. He feels unreal.

And he doesn’t get to see Gladio, not for another hour, not for another day. There’s a wall between them that they’ve only just broken down. Noctis can’t stop the shake in his hands when he presses the tissue beneath his nose for himself so that Ignis can go about doing whatever it is that he was asked to do by Clarus. Clarus, in what is either a curse or a favor, ignores Noctis for the most part. It hurts.

‘Can I see him?’ Noctis asks in a voice that isn’t his. Vague. Pathetic.

If Gladio were here, he might make a jab at how such a shaky voice was unbefitting of a prince. Noctis laughs anxiously at the thought, and Clarus glares.

‘Please,’ he says. ‘I can’t think straight.’

‘Your Highness,’ is all Clarus says. It’s better than the silence.

Except that it’s not. Hearing his title out loud almost makes Noctis burst into tears again. He thinks that the only reason he manages to hold it in is that the ghost of Gladio is surely making fun of him behind his back somewhere to the rest of the ‘guard.

‘I want to see Gladio,’ Noctis says louder this time.

‘Perhaps he ought not return to his apartment tonight,’ Ignis is saying with too much concern. ‘Though I doubt it wasn’t isolated, better to be safe than sorry.’

‘I think that’s for the best.’

There isn’t a pause before Ignis is continuing, ‘I’ll call so that the Crownsguard at the Citadel can get it ready before we arrive. His Highness is distraught. The rest will do him well.’

Noctis presses his nails against his palms and tries to count to three. It’s what his doctor used to tell him when he got worked out, flustered by the nightmares, at a loss with what to do with his legs when they betrayed him. He breathes in and out of his nose and forces himself to not shudder. The only kindness Nyx has shown him tonight was letting him borrow his jacket.

He wonders what the collisions of stars tastes like. He feels like a boy who has stolen one too many bits of constellations from the sky. Noctis runs his tongue along his teeth and peels the skin off his lips from stress. His stomach continues to tangle.

‘I don’t want to go,’ he says, raising his chin. ‘I want to see Gladio. I want to know if he’s—’

‘Your Highness,’ Clarus says. ‘That’s _enough.’_

‘It was my fault,’ Noctis says. Numbness burns his eyes. The ringing in his ears is deafening. ‘I did it. I got Gladio hurt. I just—’

‘Noctis,’ Ignis says under his breath. ‘Now is not the time. We need to move.’

Ignis talks like they’re in the middle of a battleground, fighting at the Wall or the outskirts and trying to deal with the Imperials and the daemons and the rebellion. They’re safe in a _hospital,_ and Noctis fights an odd sense of hysteria bubbling in his stomach.

The knife was meant for him. It would’ve gotten him good, too. It didn’t, though, because as soon as the neon reflected off the metal, Gladio grabbed Noctis by the back of his jacket and dove face first into the defensive. Remembering makes weird laughter tickle the back of his teeth. Noctis has to bite down on his thumb to stop.

Iris hasn’t said a word for the two hours they’ve waited. She’s lucky in the sense that she doesn’t quite understand what’s going on, or the severity of the situation. She’s playing a game on her father’s phone with headphones plugged in. She buys extra lives without asking.

‘Please.’

_‘Noct,’_ Ignis repeats. Disappointed.

Disjointed, because Noctis is hardly listening. He digs his fingers into his jeans now that they’re sore from all the biting and itches the fabric. He’s wiggled his ankle into a certain type of soreness that’s not sharp or stinging. Clarus won’t look at him.

It’s horrible. It’s _terrible._ Everything bad about Noctis is coming out tonight in waves. He doesn’t think before he acts, is occasionally frustrated and irritable, and he doesn’t listen well to orders. Ignis pulls on his sleeve to get him to move on way, but his feet are stumbling over themselves trying to go the other. The emergency part. Where Gladio is.

‘That’s enough, Your Highness,’ Clarus says abruptly.

‘I want to—’ Noctis begins.

‘No,’ Clarus says. ‘Go home. That’s your duty now. To rest.’

‘Please, I’m so sorry,’ Noctis says.

‘Go home,’ Clarus repeats. ‘Gladio will still be here in the morning. You’ve not killed him yet.’

The _yet_ hangs around like a particularly annoying ghost. The dismissal weighs heavily in the pit of Noctis’ stomach, hanging, abysmal, though Ignis assures him on the way home that Clarus doesn’t hate him nor is he mad. _It’s part of the job,_ so he says. _It was to happen sooner or later,_ or so he says. It sounds like a bunch of bullshit to Noctis, but what does he know? He’s a friend killer. A horrible prince with a selfish streak. These thoughts swirl around when Noctis briefly passes out at a red light.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
‘I want Prompto here,’ is the first thing Noctis says.

Ignis raises one eyebrow in the middle of fumbling with the door, cursing under his breath and tossing his head when it refuses to budge. The rooms in the Citadel are older than they appear from the outside, and it seems like he’s long forgotten the struggle since they’ve moved away. Noctis watches as he pulls the door off the floor and _then_ pushes forward, basking in the light.

‘Did you hear me?’ Noctis asks, feeling twitchy. ‘I said I want Prompto here.’

‘I heard,’ Ignis says.

‘So is he going to come? Are you going to ask if Prompto can come?’ Noctis asks, annoying. He feels a bit too much like a buzzing bee. He hovers behind Ignis. ‘I don’t want to be alone. Please?’

‘I am doing the best I can do, Your Highness,’ Ignis reminds him.

He’s carrying both of their bags. He always has an extra packed bag in case of emergencies, but Noctis never thinks ahead. It’s all clothes Crowe grabbed while they locked up his apartment. He’s not allowed back, he was told, until they catch the guy.

The news had reached Regis in the middle of a meeting. The King had responded immediately, shutting down most of downtown so that the Crownsguard can sniff around for a guy Noctis blearily described at the gate once Ignis had coaxed him awake. A man, a little dirty, Galahdian accent, who is Gladio’s size with a trident of scars on his cheek.

‘Prompto,’ Noctis says.

Thinking about him brings a unique chill to Noctis’ spine. He recoils harder than he means to.

‘I’ll work on it,’ Ignis says faintly.

‘And I want these clothes thrown away!’ he adds, choking on his haste. ‘These shoes are hideous. I hate them! This jacket is gods-awful and tacky.’

‘But they are gifts,’ Ignis says, eyebrows ruffled. ‘From Secretary Claustra. It’d be rude.’  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Noctis _is_ rude. It’s one of the reasons they’re in this situation to begin with. He said something a little too loud, proud of his black clothing ensemble and sleek appearance, and gleaming with the neons on his skin. He remembered Gladio across from him drinking some damn beer that was too sharp and hard for Noctis’ tastes.

Going downtown is always dangerous, but that’s what makes it _exciting._ He had gotten to hold Gladio’s hand without much thought, laughed, bought street vendor food and choked on Galahdian spice. They went for drinks because it was late and almost time to head back, and Noctis is always desperate for more time where he doesn’t have to be the prince.

It ended up with Gladio holding the back of his jacket and getting in the middle of it. The people never seem happy lately. Always displeased with the King. Embarrassed by his choices, the shrinking of their territory and the clauses of treaties. It makes Noctis an easy target for a lot of people upset at Insomnia.

Noctis presses his face in his knees and tries to not cry again. There’s a headache building on top of an already aggressive headache, pinching behind his eyes and throbbing in the back of his neck. He sucks in a sharp breath and smoothes his hands down his thighs. He’s still shivering despite it all.

It’s the second worst day he’s ever had, and it’s never going to end.

Prompto is sure to be excited about a riveting tale. Two boyfriends who are probably _not_ supposed to be dating in the first place, and a fight that ends about as soon as it began. People are afraid of Gladio, so by the time the drunk man realized he’d missed and hit someone else, he’d booked it with a horrified shout.

Noctis is vaguely aware that Prompto may lose it when they get to the part where Noctis did his best to not pass out immediately while waiting for the rest of the ‘guard to show up, and how Gladio _smiled_ at him while they waited like he hadn’t almost been gutted.

‘Fuck,’ he says weakly, and scrambles out of bed to do _anything_ else.

There’s fine electricity running in the currents of his veins. He’s ascending, cloud-nine, _Valhalla-status_ reached as ludicrous as it sounds. There’s a Pavlovian punch-drunk boner trying to drag itself back into existence in his sleep shorts and all.

‘Ignis,’ he says, horrified, and standing like a phantom in their connected doorway.

Ignis isn’t asleep for once, dragging around papers while he walks from one side to another in his room. His hair is thoroughly mussed, and his daggers are sitting clean on his hips while he works. Noctis feels his stomach drop all the way to Hel at the sight. Etro be _damned._

Because that’s part of Ignis’ job even if Noctis always comes close to forgetting. He blubbers before he realizes he’s doing it, making a weird keening sound in the back of his throat as he brings his face to his hands to keep from looking at all the research thrown on the floor. Ignis doesn’t bother to come to him. He knows when enough is enough. It’s a shame that Noctis can never relate to that apathy.

‘Is Prompto coming over?’ Noctis breathes hoarsely and weakly and faintly.

‘They’ve gone to pick him up from his house now,’ Ignis tells him. ‘You won’t have to be alone tonight if that’s what you wanted.’

‘I just.’ His throat burns horrifically. ‘I want all of this to stop. I want it to be over.’

‘Noct,’ Ignis says, soft.

He still doesn’t come over. It’s a blessing. Etro’s given them bonus gifts from above. Noctis keeps one foot on his side so he can bolt when he’s tired of facing the facts. Ignis humors him as best he can with assassins knives swinging at his sides. It’s hard to remember that’s _also_ his job when they spend most of their time singing along loudly to ‘A Very Chocobo Christmas’ when it’s _not_ Christmas.

‘Do you think Gladio will still want to be my Shield?’ Noctis asks instead of what he’s thinking.

‘It’s his birthright to tend to you,’ Ignis says soothingly.

That somehow works despite the vague murderous energy. He leans against the doorway for support, head pounding, in need of more attention.

‘I’ll fire him,’ Noctis says.

‘You won’t,’ Ignis disagrees. ‘And if you did, I doubt Gladio would let it go without a fight. There is pride in being your Shield.’

Pride is an odd way of describing _stupidity._ Noctis rolls his eyes without meaning to and hates the way it makes his entire world sparkly and fuzzy because of the exhaustion. He rubs at his eyes again. There is a hollowness building up in his gut that he is far too used to. Ignis makes a distressed tutting noise. A ghost, but one that kills.

‘I don’t want him to be,’ Noctis says.

‘That’s not how this works, unfortunately, Noct,’ Ignis says. ‘I wish it were, for your sake.’

‘He could’ve died.’

‘You could’ve died,’ Ignis reminds him. ‘It’s Gladio’s purpose to avoid that.’

‘Purpose this! Purpose that! It’s fucking _dumb,’_ Noctis swears with too much heat. He reels from it and rubs his temples. ‘I wish I wasn’t the prince at all.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ Ignis says.

But Noctis does. He proves it by slamming the door between their rooms with as much force as he can muster this late at night with his lower back cramping up from the stress, mind dizzy, utterly ruined. He doesn’t have to hear the exasperated sigh to know it’s there.

He doesn’t want to see Gladio ever again. He doesn’t want to see Ignis and his glasses. He barely wants to see Prompto, or hear his laughter, or his jokes. There’s nothing _right_ about this situation, and nothing right about how the world tumbles away to nothing. Noctis throws himself into bed and tries to ignore the pinpricks of light behind his eyelids.

At some point he’s going to have to swallow the bitter news. He’s the prince, heir apparent, ascendant to the throne with crackling power born in his veins. Blessed by the Astrals above, or whatever it is that the congregation chants.

There’s happenstance there.

Ugly, brutal happenstance. Pros and cons. On-one-hands-and-on-the-other’s. Noctis is wound up, jittery and nowhere to go, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. _His_ fault. The anxious part of him wonders if Clarus will answer him if he texts.

There’s already mumbled apologies from the trip down the hall. Noctis had lost control of his legs from the nerves, built up pain suddenly releasing in his left knee since he’d spent so much time ignoring it. Clarus had all but carried him out to his car where Ignis had brought it. Noctis slurred apologies on his collar, and Clarus listened.

Clarus doesn’t hate him. At least, that’s what Ignis said. No hate, only worry. For his son, for Noctis. A lot of anger too. There are assholes in every aspect of life that strive to bring everyone else down, and Clarus hates them. But he could never hate Noctis, not now.

Noctis suffers a stomach cramp halfway through thinking about how he deserves divine punishment. He curls up in a tight ball beneath his covers and tries to ignore how it gets under his skin. He’s afraid to sleep, not because of some trident-scarred man showing up, but because of the nightmares.

Exhaustion kicks his ass by the time Prompto shows up. It’s after midnight, _has been_ after midnight this entire time but Prompto somehow looks like he strolled out of Insomnia’s modeling line. He doesn’t tell a joke or laugh at how Noctis has dramatically thrown his belongings across the room in a fit, but he slides into bed without asking if it’s okay and swings a leg across Noctis’ hips.

‘What’s cookin’, good lookin’?’ Prompto croons necessarily, right in Noctis’ ear.

‘You should become the prince for me,’ Noctis says.

Prompto snorts like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, but sympathetically rests his cheek on what’s probably the boniest part of Noctis’ shoulder without complaining. He uses the hand uncomfortably wormed beneath Noctis’ neck to pet his hair.

Prompto finds a silver lining and sticks to it. ‘Gladio’s gonna have the biggest head now.’

‘What for?’

‘Having a kickass scar, dude,’ Prompto says and pets quicker when Noctis tenses up. ‘He’s already so big-headed over his tattoos. Imagine him _with a scar.’_

Prompto isn’t wrong that Gladio will think it’s the coolest thing on the planet. A chick-magnet. He’ll have babes from here to Lestallum asking him about what happened, and if he’s okay. Noctis curls into himself further and hates everything about it. Hates the reason why it’s there most of all.

‘I can’t believe that’s what you chose to cheer me up with,’ Noctis says flatly.

‘I mean well,’ Prompto snorts.

Noctis almost tells him that it doesn’t count as meaning well if you have to explain it, but he lets it go. He lets everything go for once and imagines happier days with Gladio boasting about how much older he was, even though it’s barely, even though it’s just three years.

‘Keep going,’ Noctis says, impatient.

‘I got this protectin’ what I love _most,’_ Prompto grunts in his best impression of Gladio, and it’s pretty good. ‘Don’t think it’s just Insomnia, though. That lessens the love. I got this for my _baby!’_

‘Baby?’

Prompto, in the darkness, goes through every extra measure to make sure the wiggling of his eyebrows is expressive. Noctis actually laughs at it, relieved, thankful, and crumples dramatically further into the mattress than he intends to now that a weight has been lifted. It still sucks for the most part, and he’s still heavy with absolute dread over it.

There’s not anything that’s going to make it okay, but Prompto’s Gladio impression is softer than Noctis was expecting. Because that’s how it goes sometimes. Gladio’s a jerk in front of everyone like a weird initiation of sorts, but he loses that when it’s the two of them alone. Prompto knows because it’s not a secret. Noctis has gushed about him every day for nearly a year.

He’s nineteen, and in love, and now there’s some kind of weird proof of it—weird enough, sharp, and a frightening experience.

It’s a certain kind of heat that burns the best images. Iridescent little gleams of rainbow based light, the only proof of existence being something curved and haunting in the bottom of barrel with _keep out_ put on nicely along the side. A ring of holy power granted as a gift from the Astrals. Noctis will get strong soon and be able to protect those who’ve protected him, but until then, he lounges in despair and keeps up the atrocious habit of biting his nails.

Gladio will be fine, he thinks. Prompto’s right. Gladio has the hardest head out of any of them. Large brow, thick hair, a permanent frown pressed against his mouth. If there was anyone capable of artificial survival, it’s him. Most of the knotted anxiety has been soothed away by lackadaisical means.

Noctis has reached a stage of peace. Turmoil is an unfamiliar feeling pooled in the bottom of his spine. Sharp, burning, but dulled out while cautious waves of understanding hit like a brilliant end to an awful beginning. Doubt doesn’t pull any harder on his heart than it had before. It’s taken this long, but Noctis is finally settling into believing that things will be okay after all. Everyone is doing their best.

Prompto is snoring before Noctis has found a comfortable position to sit in. Loud and jolting, with his mouth wide open. There’s proof enough of the drool bubbling without Noctis having to look for it, so he does his best to ignore it, settling with his phone on his thighs as he tries to play a game that’ll be hard but not frustrating to be a distraction.

King’s Knight is simple, but it has a little too much Gladio for it to be a comfort right now. He has the best castle, the highest score, and his icon carries what seems to be the widest grin. Noctis thumbs over Gladio’s profile without thinking and stares down the bright, golden words of pride.

Stupid man.

Gladio is truly terrible despite how he’s not capable of anything. Last logged in at least _twelve hours ago_ so all those sweet smiles at the table were directed at winning something rather than Noctis’ admittedly less than stellar jokes.

He’s still the best man. Strongest man, though not the funniest man. Laughs too loudly and honestly has more fun throwing fits about little things than Noctis does.

Noctis’ man. His assigned Shield, no doubt, but probably more—a touch of his heart and soul if Noctis thought Gladio could handle hearing it without becoming insufferably smug at how easily he manages to wind Noctis up when they’re hardly doing anything at all. In a moment of shy rage, Noctis unfriends Gladio’s profile and feels _vindicated._

And then without much fanfare, he feels entirely shitty about it and sends Gladio’s profile a request like his life depends on it. It’s all he has for right now. Noctis sits alone in the middle of the night with his best friend snoring like a train, and Gladio’s avatar sneering at him.

‘Prompto,’ he says, elbowing him. ‘Wake up.’

Honest to the gods, Prompto manages to do it without complaining. He chokes on his spit at first and scrambles to sit up, looking wild and ruffled and terrified, but he doesn’t look like much of a threat with his chocobo pajamas.

‘I can’t sleep,’ Noctis tells him. He doesn’t add why.

‘Oh,’ Prompto says. ‘Sorry, man.’

‘Do something with me,’ Noctis says, pinching his phone between his fingers until the glass makes an awkward sound. Not to be bent. It’ll break. ‘I’m scared I’ll dream about it.’

Prompto stares. ‘You have to sleep at some point, though.’

‘And I don’t want it to be right now, so please stay up—’

‘What are you worried about, Noct?’ Prompto asks like it isn’t obvious, like the reason isn’t all alone in a hospital room with a brand new face scar.

‘What if Gladio doesn’t want to date me anymore?’ is a confession.

It’s the worst thing that Noctis has said tonight and has zero bearing. This isn’t the first disaster of a date, but it’s definitely one that sticks out. There was a time when they went downtown again and had to have Nyx supervise in case they got handsy. As if that was anyone’s business.

‘What makes you think he wouldn’t?’ Prompto asks slowly.

‘I got him _stabbed_ , oh my gods,’ Noctis breathes. He throws his hands up for further effect. ‘I think that is, like, the biggest reason to not want to date someone.’

‘But he asked you out?’ Prompto offers unhelpfully.

‘And then I got him stabbed! What’s hard to get here?’

Prompto elbows him sharply in the ribs. ‘Dude, I’m trying to explain it to you. Gladio doesn’t give a shit about things like that. He’s gonna get stabbed one way or another.’

‘Holy Etro above, Prompto,’ Noctis says hysterically.

‘You’re being a little dramatic,’ his best friend says, shamelessly patting him in consolation. ‘But _think_ about it: Gladio likes you and knows that comes with some weird costs.’

‘Weird costs.’ It’s numbly repeated.

‘You’re the crown prince,’ Prompto says in lieu of explanation.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.

It kind of does. Noctis pushes Prompto away from him and resumes his favorite position, curled tight, and pretending that tonight doesn’t exist in a clueless style. It makes sense though he doesn’t want it to. Noctis can’t use his fingers to count the amount of times someone’s tried to kill his dad.

Yet it never went through. A shield’s duty and all, but it makes Noctis wonder if his dad has an advisor that also debuts as some sort of assassin when the moon is in the sky so that everyone can rest easily. It truly is something that Noctis never wants to think of again. He kicks Prompto gently like it’s his fault.

Noctis’ life is weird. It’s immaculate but odd and uncomfortable, and there are far too many people that are willing to throw everything away just because Noctis might get a bruised knee if he falls without at least six people watching over him.

Prompto is right about that at least. Being the prince is a touch like being a star close to death, finally a chance to abandon the lackluster shell of immolation, but stuck with a bunch of scientists peeking up at it while waiting for a supernova as though it’s never happened before and there’s something exciting. A lack of growth because everyone babies him. Yet, people _don’t_ want to baby him because they think it’s bad for him. Gladio was the loudest one with that opinion.

Not fifteen minutes go by before Prompto is openly snoring again, pulling on Noctis’ sheets while turning over because the Citadel is fairly cold. Noctis shimmies down next to him and pushes and pulls until he manages to reach his hand under his pillow.

Carbuncle comes to rest in his palm like it isn’t a big deal at all. Noctis rolls onto his side and keeps the figure pressed sharply against his fingers and _tries_ to fall into what’s considered restful sleep.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Honestly, it would’ve been easy if it worked out that way.

Noctis ends right back up at the bar where it all happened in that outfit he’d yelled at Ignis to throw a way with a dull, sickening feeling. It’s sad that his mind couldn’t have pretended to be creative with the whole thing. He stares at Gladio’s beer. A stranger passes without saying anything. The Gladio in his dream, by the way? Seems pissed off about the whole night when Noctis swore they were both having a fantastic time being alone without at least ten guards breathing down their necks.

He’s suffered enough breakdowns as it is, so he sits up in his chair and tries to look through the crowd. It doesn’t work, because maybe Gladio’s let him have a sip of his truly disgusting drink while laughing at his reaction, and Noctis isn’t used to the burning feeling of alcohol on his tongue.

In all his agony, Noctis had forgotten how good Gladio had looked. Wearing the coolest fashion trends, a leather jacket fresh off the Insomnian runway with jeans ripped enough that two people had stopped them to ask why Gladio had bought them if they were in such disarray. It was funny to see their reactions when Gladio explained they were actually torn _from work_ as though the black fatigues of the Crownsguard were really that hard to recognize between the reds-and-blues.

Noctis loves him. It’s _terrifying._ It’s the dumbest decision Noctis has ever made but he wouldn’t take it back if the world wanted him to. Gladio’s sometimes mean, but he means well. He does so well to do everything in his power so that Noctis is happy between the times when Gladio is beating him into the ground during sparring.

Sometimes Gladio lets him win. Says that he can’t in good health actually let Noctis become better than him, because then what’s the point of being the Shield? The good ole Amicitia bloodline would curdle if there was ever a time that the Kings wouldn’t need them, and Gladio isn’t going to let Noctis be the prince to ruin their name. Or something like that. It doesn’t make sense.

‘I’m going to save you,’ Noctis says seriously.

This particular phantom of Gladio doesn’t look like he could give a single shit about what Noctis is determined to do, but at least he doesn’t look mad about it. Noctis’ heart flutters painfully. It sucks that in the dreamscape he also hasn’t worked out the plan of how to do it, but thinking isn’t his _thing._

Saving is relative. Saving is _questionable._ He knows it won’t do anything on the outside, only here, but it’s the little push he needs to not feel so lost.

Besides, Dream-Gladio does this thing where he’s quiet and doesn’t say anything crude. It’s nice. They hold hands across the table and he doesn’t say anything cheesy about it. It gives Noctis everything that he needs to stare into his imaginary crowd and steel himself against what comes.

It doesn’t happen like that.

It couldn’t happen like that. That would be too clean, too exact and smart, to really match how much of a klutz Noctis tends to be. All it takes is one moment of looking away and at something else, and he misses his chance by a small window.

Noctis is met with devastation as he narrowly avoids being stabbed again with some hand fisted in the back of his jacket for prime yanking. He’s on the dirty, greasy floor without much ado and it hurts even if it isn’t real. Gladio’s not there to jump in halfway and Noctis feels nothing but creeping paranoia shooting up hot from the back of his spine all the way to the base of his skull.

‘Oh,’ he says meekly, frantically scooting back out of embarrassment.

The man with the trident scar stands proudly over what he’s done even if Noctis can’t see it, holding his crooked knife with next to no remorse. Noctis presses his hands against his stomach.

‘You did this,’ the man says. Noctis already knows that.

‘It’s okay,’ he says without much thought. ‘It’s supposed to happen.’

‘You’re going to die one day.’ A pause. ‘Then what?’

That goes without saying. Noctis pays attention when he’s supposed to, somehow ends up fairly aware of how much the world and everyone in it probably hates him. He’s pulled the wrath of the Astrals out of some fine hat without even meaning to. Or so the sermon says. Pray for his lost, misunderstood soul.

Noctis would stand up if he had much of a choice. He sits there like an idiot with his legs splayed out, ass aching from the drop with no Dream-Gladio in sight to offer encouragement. He’s really _fucked_ this one up with all the talent in the world. He can fight of course, but that doesn’t leave much confidence. He’s ready for the easy letdown, or some brutal ending he’ll hate.

‘My friends’ll be free,’ Noctis says. It buds evenly in his chest.

‘Some big sacrifice you are,’ the man taunts. He waves his knife around dramatically with glimpses of purple leaking everywhere. ‘And _you’re_ supposed to be King? Don’t make me laugh.’

Noctis gets it. He glances over at Dream-Gladio’s body and digs his fingers into his thighs to keep from doing something stupid. This isn’t how it turned out, but it could’ve, and Noctis can hear both Clarus and Iris weeping from here. Gone too soon, or something like that. Probably horrified that Iris would be the one to lend Noct her sword next.

Dream-Murderer has a bit of a point. He can’t do anything about what happens, and everyone knows it. As far as everyone else concerned, the heir apparent is a fancy nickname given to someone who barely has any real claim over lands their King has given away. He feels pretty cheated.

‘I’ll get you when we meet next,’ the man with the scar says. Noctis believes him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Noctis wakes up to a hand on his shoulder and a muffled shout. It’s fear that kicks him into overdrive. He calls one of Ignis’ daggers to his hands and rolls it. The intruder grabs his wrist, and together they fumble until the exhaustion fades away and Noctis can _see._

Well, Prompto was right about something. Gladio looks damn fine with a scar and seems unbothered by its existence entirely. Through the muted colors of the room, it’s easy to tell how unphased about the situation he is. No fear, no regret. No hint of intelligence telling him that it shouldn’t be this easy to get. Noctis lets the blade fade.

‘Go back to sleep, princess,’ Gladio says.

It’s supposed to be some sort of endearment, but all it does is bundle up the anger Noctis had hiding in his chest and bring it to light. He shoves Gladio as hard as he can and follows up with it, detangling his legs so he can drop to the floor and shove at Gladio again to solve.

‘You know, this isn’t exactly the greeting I was expecting,’ Gladio says, tone surprisingly light. It spurs some ungodly fury in Noctis. ‘Dad said you were distraught. This isn’t very distraught of you.’

‘I hate you so fucking much,’ is what comes out of Noctis’ mouth before he can process it.

Gladio has the gall to look amused about it. He’s always like that, on and proud about something pretty much no one else could care about. Noctis throws his whole body into his next shove and is equally as frustrated as earlier when Gladio traps him in too tight of a hug.

‘It’s okay,’ Gladio tells him. ‘I’m here now.’

‘You’re stupid,’ Noctis says ferociously. ‘Actually the dumbest person I’ve met.’

‘Okay, honey,’ he snorts. It’s like he doesn’t quite believe Noctis when he says it. ‘There, there. Gladio is here. No more need for fear, or anger, or whatever is goin’ on in that pretty head of yours.’

‘I can’t stand you,’ Noctis snaps. ‘Get out! Go away!’

Gladio actually _laughs_ about it. ‘I see.’

And it’s twice as annoying because Noctis is still trapped in his arms, crushed at an awkward angle, ear pressed against a heartbeat he’s honestly been dying to hear. He manages to keep his arms by his sides. It does wonders that he’s not clinging to Gladio for dear life.

Distraught, or some other kind of whimsical thought. Noctis headbutts Gladio in the collarbone to keep from crying out loud, cherishes the sharp pain that comes with meeting nothing but hard muscle. After all the denial he could muster, he finally hugs Gladio back around the waist and feels too sick about it.

‘You could have _died,’_ he accuses.

‘It’s my job, Noct,’ Gladio says easily, like it’s simple. ‘You’re everything to everyone. And to me.’

It’s one of those phrases Noctis hates the most. The _it’s my job_ defense anytime anything goes remotely wrong and Noctis is forced to stand by a friend who looks a little worse for wear while he’s pristine. An unrighteous amount of disgust for people loyal to their duty is poison. Like every time Nyx goes to out to the Wall, or when Ignis disappears at nights.

Noctis headbutts Gladio without much vigor this time, makes a frantic noise as Gladio slowly drops to his knees on the floor and presses his forehead against Noctis’ delicate waist. He’s awkwardly cradling whatever he can reach, running a soothing hand back and forth across a sensitive portion of Noctis’ scar from the first time something tried to kill him. Gladio is stuck listening to Noctis’ body reject all the nice touches he has to offer, but it’s hard to be mad when he’s being gentle.

‘I hate your job,’ Noctis says wetly. He looks at the ceiling for strength.

‘I know you do, but I love it,’ Gladio says. It’s fierce. ‘There’s no other job I’d rather have.’

‘Fast fucking food—’

‘I wouldn’t get to see you every day of my life if I did fast food, now would I?’ Gladio asks. He knows it’s a redundant question. ‘I’m there when you go to sleep, there when you wake up.’

Noctis swallows hard. ‘Not if I fire you. Then you’re nowhere.’

‘You won’t.’

‘I will,’ he says, choking on some weird emotion. ‘When I’m King, I’ll dismantle the whole idea.’

He really makes it to the end without crying. Gladio is showing far too much devotion while down on his knees, like he’s holding a deity in his arms instead of some embarrassment. Noctis digs his fingers into Gladio’s hair and tangles them, tugs a bit.

‘Please,’ Gladio says, long-suffering. ‘Be reasonable.’

‘I am, I am,’ Noctis insists. He tugs again just to hear Gladio grunt. ‘I mean it too.’

‘You wouldn’t give this up, Noct,’ Gladio says and he means it. Now it’s his turn to use his fingers like daggers against Noctis’ back. He carves scriptures. ‘You won’t say it, but you like the devotion.’

‘Comfort me,’ Noctis chokes.

Gladio brings Noctis’ shaking hands to his mouth, presses kisses against his palms and traces his nose against the sensitive pads of his fingers. It’s too much even if it’s not supposed to be anything. Noctis drifts as easily as he would have before, a mess of a person, even when he curves his fingers so Gladio is trapped there with nothing more to do than repeat the motion over and over.

_Comfort me,_ he’d said hopelessly, selfishly — all kinds of gross and responsive emotions turning thick and bubbly beneath his skin. As though he’d been the one hurt or something, but Gladio’s doing exactly what he asked for plainly and simply. It aches.

Wiggling in the back of his mind is how much he doesn’t deserve this. Noctis feels like keeping trapped birds and never letting them go, unconsciously clipping wings, caging for all eternity. He _feels_ it even with such reluctance, distaste, and knows it’s in his blood as much as serving and protecting is the ichor of a Shield. He pulls his hands away and suffers ruination at the way Gladio gives chase.

It’s horrible. Unreasonable. A wedge of anxiety fits itself in the base of Noctis’ throat with no warning. It becomes a nest of things unsuitable. Muffled anger still persists even as he chokes gracelessly, forces down a wicked sound while he watches Gladio stand from his kneeling position so that he can cradle a wicked mess as gingerly as the first time.

Subconscious brattiness hits harder than anticipated. Suddenly, Noctis wants none of it. He’ll dethrone. All the rules that held these crass institutions in place will crumble with his regime. Any, and he means it, and all regulations of the Old Kings will be dismantled.

He doesn’t want to watch his friends die. He doesn’t want to watch his friends suffer because it was the paths of their mothers and fathers, and it will be the paths of their children. Noctis doesn’t cry about it for once. He curls his hands into fists and shakes.

Gladio has practiced being oblivious to these fits.

He pulls Noctis tight against his chest and walks back towards the bed, somehow keeping Noctis up off the floor during the whole thing. He’s strong, strongest, and carries the weight of the world like Titan holds the meteorite.

Noctis is unceremoniously shoved back into his blankets. He ragdolls and goes slack against the sheets. Hardly budges when Gladio crawls over to him, far too keen to drop all his weight on top of Noctis. It’s their thing to be ridiculous. Gladio would fall asleep like this if there wasn’t something crushing in the air. He’s concerned in a way that only Gladio can be.

There’s a knee jerk desire to be silly. It comes like the end of all their nights together. Noctis gives in to it and presses his palms against Gladio’s cheeks, squeezing, and admires the pout that follows.

‘You look like a fish,’ he says dumbly, impossibly enamored.

‘An attractive fish, I hope,’ Gladio says. ‘Check out this rad scar.’

Noctis releases him. ‘There’s nothing _rad_ about it.’

‘Matches my warrior’s heart,’ Gladio continues. ‘I look badass.’

‘That’s exactly what Prompto said you’d say,’ Noctis says. It’s a thoughtless conclusion to an unwanted conversation that tapers off. He repeats, ‘Comfort me.’

‘How so?’ Gladio asks. ‘Tell me what you want, princess.’

Noctis is easy to please. Once Gladio moves his elbow from where it’s crushing his ribs, it becomes so easy to learn his chin back and think about all the times they felt stupid trying to sneak around. Keeping it a secret, or trying to stay safe and out of judgemental eyes. Gladio comes to his room and smoothes all the troubled edges.

He turns his cheek and finds Gladio’s mouth parted and waiting. He’s patiently seeking worship songs and nonsensical praise like any half-assed idiot would, so Noctis runs his teeth against Gladio’s bottom lip and tempts fate. But right as he closes his mouth to sell it, he pulls away and leaves Gladio to think about the choices he’s made since yesterday afternoon.

‘That’s fine,’ Gladio says nonchalantly, a touch hungry. ‘Your mouth is fuckin’ fresh anyway.’

Noctis shrugs. It’s not his fault. He doesn’t even know what time it is, or if it would be appropriate at this point to slouch his way over to his bathroom and freshen up since he’s already down and out. There are other things to be worried about, he figures. Like how he tries to get up even jokingly, and how he’s not allowed to make an escape because Gladio grabs him by the waist and forces him down.

No leaving, then. No freshening up, or acting like this isn’t anything else besides some bizarre dick-led scene. It distracts away from the heartbeat trauma that has edged its way up Noctis’ spine for the last ten hours or so. The heart gets what it wants.

‘You could have died,’ Noctis repeats softly.

Gladio’s palm is calloused, but oh so necessary against Noctis’ skin. ‘Are we really going through this again, Noct? It’s not a big deal.’

‘You’re doing a shitty job of comforting me,’ Noctis snorts. He squeezes his eyes shut.

‘Maybe you should comfort _me.’_

‘Why’s that?’

‘I’m the one who got messed up, after all,’ Gladio tells him.

‘Then,’ Noctis says, ‘go ahead and tell me how you want it.’

And, well, that’s certainly dick-led. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t. Gladio comes closer because of it and does something terrible with his mouth.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Noctis comments dryly. It’s hard to think.

Gladio is awful. He mouths at the edge of Noctis’ jaw and digs his fingers in the ridges of Noctis’ shirt like he’s going to pull it off without any fun to go with it first. It’s Pavlovian, but not how they usually handle things that stress them out.

He’s high and mighty and thinks far too much of himself, but Noctis lifts his chin so that Gladio can get right to the edge of his jaw without any problem. Though the panic has left him feeling hot and sticky, it’s not a complete disaster to give up the pretense of wanting normal things this time.

‘Do you feel up to that?’ Noctis asks in a roundabout way since he doesn’t want to know the details.

‘Absolutely,’ Gladio murmurs. ‘I’m feelin’ invincible.’

‘You smell like the hospital,’ Noctis says.

‘And you stink like sleep,’ Gladio says, ‘but it doesn’t matter.’

Noctis almost asks how sleep smells but gets sidetracked with curling on his side and throwing a leg up onto Gladio’s hips. It’s rowdy and uneven, but it lets him get comfortable and close without distraction. He shivers differently this time and finally kisses Gladio the way he’s been waiting for.

There’s nothing magical about knowing how things work. Gladio’s skin still sizzles beneath his touch and tastes a bit like lightning magic, but Noctis knows that’s a pomegranate-blessed taste of a Cure on his tongue so he doesn’t bother to complain just like Gladio never complains when he’s stuck kissing warp magic off the boniest curve of Noctis’ shoulders. It’s what they _get,_ distorted realities and yummy drinks, and all that additional energy.

Noctis may have been kissing a little too desperately with the way Gladio grabs him plainly to try and reset the pace to something less frantic. Understanding that, no matter what, a petty knife-fight wasn’t a threat. He’s beginning to get it.

‘Wanna fuck?’ Gladio asks lazily.

‘Shut up.’

There’s nothing heated about the way he says it, or how he rolls his eyes and pushes with one foot. He manages to make Gladio wiggle onto his back so Noctis can sit up nice and proper, legs splayed rather clumsily and not at all attractively since there’s very little give to the way his cramped left hip works. Gladio rubs his thigh.

Noctis gets distracted by the power without meaning too. A little buzzing sensation in his ears that has him falling forward to fit his mouth over Gladio’s.

They kiss all the time. In stuffed passageways when the Crownsguard has walked by, before practice as a taunt, after practice as an apology, and during all those nonsensical moments that are sharp and soft. It’s a daydream.

It’s nice that Gladio always kisses like he’s never going to have enough for it. He’s always aware of the distant clock running out of sand with the way he holds on to the back of Noctis’ neck and _squeezes_ it. A touch here or there, but focusing on having their souls meet along the way.

If there was one thing that Noctis was thankful for after his injury, it’s how sensitive his back always is. It’s not always a delight. Sometimes the jitters and white-hot pains aren’t worth all the fuss, but when he’s treated like a deity it’s easier to swallow. Gladio does this thing with his fingers where he traces the meandering scar. It wakes the nerves and makes Noctis’ toes tingle.

But Noctis likes to pretend he’s equally as charming. He’s interested in the little things, always looking for the next best thing, and knows that Gladio is reckless and danger driven, so if he bites down then he knows to do it like he means it. Leave a mark. Dig the teeth in. Vampiric influence.

He’s genuinely abysmal only now taking in Gladio’s altered appearance. Gladio truly has the world’s longest eyelashes that are both thick and pretty. True almond eyes with pupils completely blown. Itchy stubble that can be forgiven. He always looks his best in the tightest of shirts and doesn’t complain with how Noctis always needs to dig his hands under.

So he does, and digs his nails into Gladio’s skin so he can tenderly pull red lines across every rise and fall of Gladio’s stomach. He likes touching the muscles he doesn’t. Likes how they flex when Gladio’s stuck fighting excitement at the thought of what comes next, and appreciates that they stay like that when he settles his hips over Gladio’s and _presses_ in a familiar way. Noctis thinks with his dick and gets distracted by how it makes the lower part of his stomach tingle. He knows art when he sees it. It doesn’t mean one thing or another when he leans back to appreciate true growth, leaving Gladio to pull his shirt off the rest of the way.

There’s no sexy way to say _you taste like Cure_ even as Noctis finds secrets written along Gladio’s teeth. He’s certainly keen for punishment with the way he keeps working that in his favor. Biting and the like. Gladio does a fantastic job of not following him down a whimsical path. There’s a guiding hand on the back of his neck. Noctis feels emboldened by its presence and goes searching.

He’s annoyingly pleased with himself. His hop pops annoyingly as he adjusts the way he’s sitting, takes a trip down the length of Gladio’s thighs to push his fingers against the elastic band of his sweats, so, so very irritated with the way his fingers go numb with anticipation. Giddy and dick orientated as always, but now with additional angst.

Noctis surprises himself. It’s that easy. That tempted. He peeks up at Gladio’s face and despite the sharp pang of guilt that summons itself from the base of his spine, he feels a little dizzy with relief. The harsh red across Gladio’s nose is _his_ fault this time.

Now it’s Gladio’s turn to be impatient. He’s smug with the way he sits up like he’s lounging on a throne instead of blankets, pressure on his wrists, with some dumb expression that’s mixed between arousal and what seems to be cheap expectancy. He’s never had to do anything like it. Noctis dugs his nails in as he drags Gladio’s sweats down clumsily and tries to not snort.

‘You’re not funny,’ Gladio says, clipped.

‘Don’t look so proud of yourself, asshole.’

Smart. Nice going. The _best_ thing that has come out of his mouth all evening. Noctis doesn’t pretend to gloat at how it falls short.

Still, there’s something soft around the edges. Gladio seems to be melting seamlessly into the lax colors of Noctis’ childhood rooms, all golds-and-blacks-and-reds. Noctis blinks the blur out of his vision and settles on what he wanted to do. He licks a fat stripe up Gladio’s dick.

Gladio, as strangled as he sounds, coos, ‘You look like you belong there.’

‘Shut up,’ Noctis repeats, shaking his head. There’s an innocent bead on the tip of his tongue. ‘I’ll stop. Leave.’

‘You won’t,’ Gladio tells him. ‘You love me too much to leave.’ Noctis is well on his way to correct him before Gladio interrupts and adds, ‘Maybe love my dick more, but it’s always hard to tell with you, princess.’

It’s a wonder how the world hasn’t ended for either of them yet. Noctis struggles inwardly with wanting to be a sap and playing along, but he has no interest in helping Gladio’s ego form since it seems to have a complete grasp of doing that entirely on its own.

‘Wanna fuck?’ Noctis asks instead.

‘Halfway there.’

‘Just a little further to go,’ he agrees, hiding everything as he sits up and really stares down at Gladio. ‘Almost ready.’

‘You or me?’

‘You.’

‘Why’s that?’ Gladio teases like he doesn’t know.

There’s certain gratification to be had with being on board with certain decisions. Noctis feels odd with the way it makes his mouth twist, two seconds away from stuttering out _because i’m the prince_ like that title itself wasn’t something he was wanting to destroy.

Gladio’s fishing for compliments. Fishing for those quiet things Noctis never admits unless he _has_ to, all crammed and bogged down with stress and anxiety and need. He’s a genuine crier when it comes to tender moments, and this is shaping up to be the most maudlin experience yet. He gets the kinks out of his throat before he dares respond. The last thing he wants is Gladio licking up his tears.

‘I like it too,’ he says finally.

‘Figured you wanted comfort,’ Gladio says.

‘Figured you’d want it too,’ Noctis says. Oh, it’s soft.

‘Well, come on, baby,’ Gladio says. Deep voice, rich, somehow golden as he coaxes Noctis right where he wants him. It’s mind-blowing how easy it is. ‘Comfort me.’

‘Okay.’

‘Alright.’

Noctis feels foggy when he leans back forward and presses his tongue against the strangely satiny feel of Gladio’s dick. Gladio pets his hair soothingly.

All under the guise of wanting comfort, but every knowns for the most part that Noctis is just a horny idiot itching for something to do. His hands shake as he skates around the harder parts of being together in an intimate setting. Noctis somehow convinces Gladio to hold his hand while he lazily blows him. It isn’t romantic in the slightest since Gladio takes it as some sort of challenge to squeeze as tightly as he can, but it’s close. Noctis revels in the attention.

‘I’m comin’,’ he says around a mouthful, teeth mildly glazed and mind carefully blitzed.

Which is somehow quite cursed. Nothing good can come of being melted by the hottest fire, but there’s a weird burn in his muscles that he can’t shake and a phantom light behind his eyelids every time he tries to find a taste of Valhalla.

He says nothing about the smooth feel of Gladio’s skin where it peeks from beneath. They’re joined at the hip without any real thought behind it, bubbling with some distant champagne excitement and silent thankfulness that nothing else happened. At least, Noctis is, and his hands shake more for it.

‘Baby,’ Gladio says, nothing but jazz and electricity in the rumble of his voice.

Like lightning.

Noctis ponders what it means. ‘Yeah?’ he asks. Doesn’t bother to finish cleaning his mouth.

‘Let’s go,’ comes a heady groan. Gladio’s thighs jump beneath Noctis’ hands.

So he does, because Noctis isn’t a complete asshole and there might’ve been something in his bones. It isn’t romantic in the least to think about how he’s wanted to do this for as long as they’ve been goofing off. Gladio is nothing but thick muscles and deliciousness.

But they’re not greedy. They spend time doing _other_ things. Sometimes there are romantic dates where it’s easy to admit how gone they are for each other instead of pretending otherwise. Most of the time, it’s all ferocity and muffled anger, and rolling around on gym mats to get the stress out.

_‘Noct,’_ Gladio breathes.

That’s hard to ignore. It’s art. Paint splashed across a canvas with reds and oranges, and nothing but the hot summer anger that Noctis has come to known so well. He thinks he replies intelligently but already loses focus of the words on his tongue. He falters spectacularly.

‘Don’t forget where you are,’ Gladio warns.

Because the fucking gets to his head, he knows. ‘I’m here,’ Noctis lies. He fumbles with his clothes. It takes Gladio’s help to get exposed. ‘I’ve got it.’

Gladio touches his knuckles delicately. ‘You’re shaking.’

Noctis laughs, all wind chimes and musical when Gladio leans back against the pillows once again. The insults are coming back to haunt them. Maybe Gladio has been the prince this entire time. Noctis finds it hard to swallow the empty hunger.

That’s what he gets, because Gladio is also unapologetically lewd with the way he throws off the rest of his clothes without a care and spreads his legs. Noctis gets choked up at the display and has to close his eyes as he fumbles for the supplies, artfully stashed beneath the bed like the maids will never check. He was already dizzy, now dizzier. He tries to not be dramatic.

It’s punchdrunk power going straight to his head. Straight to his _dick_ too if he’s going to be honest, and Noctis has a penchant for being a terrible liar. He mouths subtle curses as he sits back up, pretending to be fine as he tilts his chin back and calms down.

Noctis was shy before. Bashful about his scar travelling from his neck to the swell of his ass. Perhaps a little more defensive than he should have been about his form which was lithe and long in contrast to Gladio’s everything. He doesn’t really care now, because he knows that Gladio is watching.

Not a _gentleman_ about the open stares by any means, but captivated nonetheless. Enthralled by the star cursed skin and gods damned bones. Already Gladio reaches forward to brush a hand between Noctis’ shoulder blades because it’s taking too long and he’s been itching for that skin on skin contact. What he doesn’t know is that his hands are shaking too.

Noctis looks at him over his shoulder beneath the framing of his eyelashes. Not mild, but allowing. He lets Gladio do whatever he wants because this time is different, and he can feel every timid touch all the way down to his molten core. He preens at the attention.

‘Cos he likes it, or whatever.

Gladio likes it too. It’s proof enough at how he grunts whenever Noctis decides to join him back, cock at attention, eyes gleaming with something dangerous. He’s nasty when Noctis takes his time slicking up his fingers. He pushes his calf against Noctis’ hip in hopes of easier manipulation, but he listens. It’s far more exhilarating than it sounds. Noctis pays attention, gets Gladio’s dick into his throat for the fun of it and because he can, before trailing his fingers gently across Gladio’s rim and teasing. Like they do, jerks and opposites and grumbly affairs. He smiles when Gladio goes limp.

He’ll say it’s too much feeling, that Noctis needs to not be selfish, to pick and do _one_ thing at a time. It comes with fooling around, because Gladio has a habit of spilling easily against Noctis’ tongue when he’s not even focused. There’s a push and a pull. A need and a want. Noctis is kind enough to satisfy all of them without thinking about it.

So he gets a little high off all the noises Gladio is making, that he’ll never admit to making. He pushes his lips out to release a breath he’s been holding since who knows when, and gives darling little moans when Noctis finds all the right spots that Gladio has liked having touched. He pushes squirming fingers in and hums at the restraint, feels inwardly proud when his throat is saved for a moment longer. Gladio tenses his thighs around Noctis’ shoulders and holds him place. The only control that he has, for now. That’ll change.

It’s menacing, he thinks, to be human like this. Forget about duty and fate. They’re one step away from holding hands again and running away from everything. Gladio meets his eyes with a grin plastered to his face. Pride only adds to the odd, gooey feeling in the pit of Noctis’ stomach. He whines.

‘Hurry up,’ Gladio says, unapologetic impatience leaking in to his already gruff tone. Of course he’s bossy. It makes the most sense. ‘Takin’ your time.’

‘I am,’ Noctis agrees.

_Don’t forget where you are,_ or any other kind warning that’s supposed to mean well. Gladio talks a lot of shit for someone who’s enjoying not having to do anything this time around, propped up on pillows like he’s king of the world rather than the person serving it.

He’s tall and relaxed. Probably pampered _enough_ with the time he’s spent lounging around with nurses bustling around to make sure everything is accounted for. Noctis’ heart twinges ungratefully at it. That he wasn’t there to help, or that maybe someone else had administered the Cure that swiped that lasting pain off his face. His chest is tighter with that emotion of regret than anything else. Maybe some love sprinkled in if he’s brave enough to admit it.

Noctis isn’t. He swallows down the confession like he swallows down Gladio’s dick, choking, tearing up, and definitely a little bit desperate.

‘Let’s go,’ Gladio says again, squirming, ungodly, in a tone that says he doesn’t want to cum yet.

Noctis _listens_ for once and stops spending so much time drooling over what he could be having. There is nothing finer than pausing and dribbling more lube over his fingers until they’re tacky and gross, coy and demure like he knows what he’s doing. He’s an absolute mess when he looks up, never quite used to the way Gladio watches.

Reminds him of the time leading up to everything. How Gladio would be so pissed off and mad about it without ever saying what it was that Noctis was doing wrong, because it wasn’t like he was doing it to piss Gladio off. He existed about as brightly as the sun cascading down on the citywide Barrier, doing all kinds of fancy photo tricks to make things bubble up and look spectacular. Noctis remembers Gladio standing with his hands on his hoops looking absolutely _destroyed_ when it came time to say what really has been eating at him. Noctis remembers, three fingers deep, with a memory tinged in gaudy sepia.

‘I love you,’ Noctis says wetly. ‘I’m sorry.’

It’s not what he had in mind to say at all, but it slips out of his mouth without permission and sits in the open air expectantly. Gladio is so much of an asshole that he doesn’t even look surprised about it. He just smiles, all white teeth and in a way that stretches his scar, and tilts his chin like he planned it.

‘Love you too, Noct,’ he says.

As dramatic as it sounds, it becomes the whole world. It steals from all other sources of happiness and goes straight into Noctis’ chest. It blows his mind, shatters reality, and it seems to profit off the dismayed reaction that follows so selfishly. Noctis flushes from his stomach to his cheeks and leans forward to burrow his face in Gladio’s hip.

‘I forgive you,’ Gladio adds. He jostles his leg until Noctis sits up and stares blearily at him. ‘I do. You know that.’ His eyes are dangerous. ‘Now come inside.’

_‘Gladio,’_ is all Noctis can manage.

He’s unfortunately clumsy and thoughtless when he sits back up and onto his knees, clamoring around for something to hold onto as he tries to smooth the fire burning in his gut. Already he can tell that he’s not going to be able to make it if he doesn’t have something to hold onto, so he hisses as he rolls on a condom and tries to not jump at the touch of his own hand.

Gladio holds one of his hands while Noctis lines up and pushes in. He’s not used at all to the feeling of being overwhelmed, and it worsens with every inch that Gladio eagerly takes in. Because it’s not a big deal. He’s been waiting for it. Maybe asking for it, and Noctis never heard.

Astrals above. Noctis can’t tell who’s shaking harder. Gladio holds him close and yanks at his hair like he has no manners while Noctis struggles with staying exactly where he is, both hands braced on that rocky expanse of Gladio’s abdomen. He’s clinging a little more than he should. He pinches Gladio’s skin between his fingers and moans.

He doesn’t have to look up to know that Gladio is so damn pleased with himself. He’s attractive where he’s burned into the back of Noctis’ eyelids. All untamed hair and tanned skin, rough beard and a brand new scar to slide down his cheekbone freshly healed. He looks good, really fucking _good_ for what it’s worth. It’s a damn travesty that Noctis melts into every sharp and nervous thrust, sensitive to the bone, and antsy.

Noctis squeezes Gladio’s sides tighter to focus. There’s weird white lights swirling around in his view. It’s hard to stay where he is, worse when Gladio pushes back against his hips because he has nothing better to do than to antagonize and ruffle feathers that have only now been smoothed down. Noctis ties it all in and struggles to breathe. There’s no air. He pulls out to the tip and _slowly_ pushes back in.

‘Shoulda known you were a sap,’ Gladio murmurs.

‘Please, don’t talk.’

‘You like my voice,’ Gladio says smugly. ‘You’re doing just fine, princess. Don’t have to be gentle.’

Noctis grinds his teeth. ‘I _want_ to be.’

Because he’s a sap. Because he’s prone to seeing ugly things every time he blinks and isn’t careful with remembering where he is. The pressure only makes it harder to stay afloat. Gladio takes him all the way in again and again with subtle coos and raspy moans that are for Noctis’ benefit. He’s there, human, with a heartbeat that Noctis can feel. Enough is _enough._ It’s close enough that there’s starlight dancing across their skin. Settled together. Alive.

It’s a pleasure getting to rut in a place of unusual absence with a mind so thick and foggy that it’s a true wonder how he’s even able to pull it off. Noctis pushes his fingers into a circle against Gladio’s hairy stomach and tries to stay sober.

‘You’re okay,’ he says distantly, blinking odd lights out of his eyes.

‘Yeah,’ Gladio breathes. He pets Noctis’ throat with a finger. ‘I’m okay.’

Noctis tastes odd blues on the tip of his tongue. ‘You’re going to _live_ for me,’ he tells him.

Well, he _orders_ Gladio.

But it’s all the same when Noctis is the one in charge, stupid rules and nonsensical rites damned to the very place they were meant to go years ago. Gladio actually _hiccups_ at the command and manages to keep his mouth shut about the meaning of it. Says nothing about how Noctis’ nails leave accidental red trails against his sides without breaking the skin. It’s a promise.

Better yet, it’s restoring the sanctity between a King and his Shield. Noctis mouths at Gladio’s neck and has no concern over the mess he’s inevitably making. It’s hard to focus when Gladio is bent in half for the distance to be manageable. It’s hot when he does weird, limber things when he’s the opposite.

Gladio doesn’t say anything shitty for once. He doesn’t follow an awkward pattern of working Noctis into throwing some kind of fit halfway through, red and shaking and _frustrated_ more than anything else because he’s taken for granted. He’s nice, holds Noctis’ elbows when his arms start shaking and pushes his hips back to meet every inch.

He’s just as needy even if he never admits it. There’s some sort of tough facade that has to remain when no one’s looking, because of childhood admirations and rules instilled even with the meaning fading away into oblivion the older they got. Gladio used to foam at the mouth at the mere mention of being kind to Noctis, and it seems to stay. All these years later, and the faintest hint of kindness slips away the moment it’s shown. Not this time. He’s all kinds of soft, even rubbing a thumb up and down Noctis’ arm like Gladio is endeared by it.

Noctis could lean against the distance again, lick another apology in a thin stripe against the veins at the side of Gladio’s neck and get away with it. He could coo, mumbling compliments, and be told that he’s equally as precious. His legs are shaking from fucking Gladio into the mattress.

It’s a little gross. A little icky. Noctis is already showing the signs of being too tired for words after an entire day of crying and wishing things could be different, and now it’s made worse from how his heart aches and how he wants nothing more than to press into Gladio’s chest and get to stay there forever. He’s in love or something equally as disastrous. He’s practically whining, simpering, and doing just about everything Gladio hates.

He’s decided that it can’t get much worse than it already has. He’s already put it into words. Said _i love you_ despite the gut crushing feeling of knowing that this isn’t even the worst of it. But Noctis is, and he knows he is, because sometimes he looks at Gladio and all he can think about is how he wouldn’t want to see anyone else standing right beside him looking proud and magnificent and perfect. He chokes out an awkward sob and feels _human_ when Gladio reaches for him, brushing his fingers against Noctis’ skin and looking and sounding positively divine.

‘I love you,’ Noctis says again, blinking prettily and dazedly. ‘I love you, I love you—’ For a moment, he forgets his mantra and cries.

Gladio is an asshole who doesn’t say it back, but grins like he knows the answer to everything. To make matters worse, he spills and gets sticky on his own abdomen, coats the bottom of Noctis’ palms with his cum and seems so damn proud of the fact. He laughs throatily when Noctis squeezes his eyes shut to try and hold on for a minute more because he likes this more than the heat he was chasing. It’s truly a disaster when everything becomes Gladio.

Noctis is bad about it too. He moans raggedly by the time his body decides it’s done and only manages to stay upright because Gladio is holding him assuredly. He throws his head back and sees stars, feels the demonic glow of chasing souls light up behind his eyes as he watches the ceiling morph into Etro’s constellation. His entire body shakes dramatically.

‘There you go, princess,’ Gladio says softly.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Say it back. You’re going to, aren’t you?’

Noctis is totally unprepared for Gladio’s hand around the base of his cock and jumps as he’s guided out, becomes even worse when Gladio strokes him a few times for good measure before yanking off the condom and carelessly tossing it wherever he feels. Noctis ignores him to try and find it.

‘I’ll get it before we leave,’ Gladio says. ‘You don’t have to worry about everything. Or anything.’

‘But my _carpet,’_ Noctis whines, and maybe Ignis’ constant diligence has worn off on him because the thought of cum leaking into his floor causes him distress. ‘Pick it up.’

‘I’ll pick it up in a minute,’ Gladio insists. ‘Come here—and _stop_ wiggling so much.’

Noctis is post-sex jittery and chewing on the inside of his lip when he allows Gladio to coax him down so that they’re side by side, gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes. Noctis can’t stop petting Gladio’s beard that’s starting to grow in. Gladio, surprisingly, has the decency to look enamored despite how tired he looks. He leans into a shy, but determined touch to his scar.

‘You know I love you,’ Gladio says easily.

‘Yeah,’ Noctis says. He refuses to meet his gaze. ‘I know you do.’

He’s not sure how it happens or why they get so quiet, but beneath the hospital smell is something like home. Noctis burrows his nose against Gladio’s shoulder and doesn’t have the energy to fight an epic battle of staying awake. He feels Gladio kiss one eye, and then the other, and hums contentedly.  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
‘It’s not shit,’ Crowe says gently, ‘but you’re not doing well either. Gotta get back up, Noct.’

He’s flat on his back after a particularly nasty failure at warping away from an attack with a budding broadsword shaped bruise against his ribs. He lays in the dirt for a moment considering his choices. It’s not a negative thing that keeps him down for so long, but a pretty design in the clouds he’s distracted by for once.

He swallows something uncomfortable that’s settled in the bottom of his throat. For whatever reason, it’s thick and scalding and _embarrassing_ to be called out like this after he’s asked for this training. She squats next to his head and pats his bangs.

‘Warping sucks,’ she says. She’s wearing such a sisterly smile.

‘Warping absolutely sucks,’ Noctis says once he feels his tongue again.

She shrugs a shoulder. ‘It’s weird for you, isn’t it? Having it come so naturally, but being complicated.’ She offers him a hand so that he can stand. ‘You’ll get there in no time, champ.’

‘Soon?’

‘If you keep up the good work,’ Crowe says, and it sounds like she means it.

Noctis stays in the soil for a little bit more and pretends he’s a flower. She’s not incredibly patient while he gives attention to his more dramatic side, all but coiled up in a fetal position to avoid feeling his legs shake like jelly when he gives in.

‘Are you going to tell Gladio?’ Noctis asks hesitantly.

‘Dunno,’ Crowe says. ‘It’s not his business.’

‘It is a little bit, isn’t it?’

Crowe fixes him with a look like she’s listening, hands on her hips, hair tousled and curled because of all the sweat. She’s the most pleasant out of all of the ‘Glaives, especially since she realizes that there’s a dangerous lack of warping going around now that he’s been on the ground for longer than a minute. She sits down next to him contemplatively.

‘Now,’ she begins, ‘I’ve never been a prince, but I don’t think everything is supposed to be open. Like, you’re still your own people. Have some privacy.’

‘You don’t sound like you believe that.’

‘I already said I wasn’t a prince, smart ass,’ she says and rolls her eyes. ‘But I have experience in the dating department, and let me tell you: Keeping secrets is a shitty thing to do, but I doubt Gladiolus will be too mad about you trying to get stronger.’

Noctis nods. ‘I want to keep him safe.’

‘That’s cool,’ Crowe says. ‘Smart, actually.’

Because the reality of it is that everyone should be protecting each other. There’s no such thing as status on the battlefield, and Noctis genuinely understands that. He wiggles his toes in his boots and tries to think of a way to thank her for not being against everything he wants. She’s training him willingly, and she’s not doing it to brag.

Gladio will always be Noctis’ Shield, but that doesn’t mean Noctis has to paint himself as a damsel. It’s one thing if there wasn’t already a war going on, but the continent is falling apart enough as it is. One drunk guy in a bar is the beginning.

‘Gotta build that trust,’ Crowe says finally.

‘I protect them,’ he says.

‘They protect you,’ she agrees. ‘It’s an even trade.’

After all, that’s what the ‘Glaive rely on. Noctis has read through enough Wall reports to understand the need to keep everyone up no matter the cost. It’s a sad reality that he doesn’t want to face, but things are finally being put into perspective for him.

She lets Noctis lie in the dirt for a few more minutes, fingers splayed across his stomach, clenching as if to keep something from escaping. He can’t tell if he’s blue-sick, warp dizzy and strained, or if it’s just common nerves that seem to be eating at his spine with every single minute wasted. He relaxes. Maybe even settles for those far distant daydreams that tickle his eyelashes.

‘You must really like him,’ Crowe says thoughtfully. She’s stroking her chin like she’s a famous actress in a melodrama. ‘More than we all thought, anyway.’

Noctis gives her a _look._ ‘What does that mean?’

‘You like-like him.’

‘This isn’t grade school.’

Crowe grins unhelpfully. ‘All I’m saying is that it’s cute,’ she tells him. ‘Or, it’s valiant. Knowing him, though, he’ll probably think it’s sexy. Anything violent is sexy to Gladio.’

‘Alright,’ Noctis snorts. ‘That’s enough. Let’s get back to work.’

So they do.  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The rest of the month seems to drag on at an alarmingly slow pace. Every shadow seems to be a specter haunting the distant corners, and even when he figures there’s going to be excitement, there’s nothing but a very amused, yet somehow very handsome Gladio chuckling like he’s figured it all out.

Apparently the scar _is_ sexy to other people. Noctis pretends to not notice.

And honestly, it’s not that he cares about what other people think. They’re free to do as they please. He minds because he can’t get the incident out of his mind no matter what he does. One day, he’s staring at files he’s supposed to be going over when he’s struck with the horrifying realization that it’s his fault. Another time, Noctis is in the shower when he’s suddenly sick to his stomach and has to sit down.

Gladio doesn’t seem to care one way or another about the incident. He strokes his beard, fingers part of the uneven ridge beneath his eye before grunting appreciatively. He never looks distant. He doesn’t try to shake it off like it’s a daemon.

Noctis tries to ask him about it one evening when they’re sitting alone on his bed, fully clothed, but on the verge of falling asleep in their exercise gear. He’s almost asleep when he imagines it, so he clings to Gladio and asks if there’s anything about it that bothers him. The answer is no. All Gladio has to offer is a kiss to Noctis’ temple.

‘Was gonna happen sooner or later,’ he says.

‘I hate that,’ Noctis says with feeling.

He’s been having a lot of those feelings lately. Anxieties that are only encouraged by his father’s health going on a steady decline, and even worse, by the shifting attitude towards the royal family because of all the treaties. Gladio is supposed to comfort him.

‘It’s what I was born to do,’ Gladio says. He shrugs.

‘It’s not,’ and the vehemence is necessary. ‘You were born to be a person. Have a soul. Grow old, have a family, have a life outside of—’

‘Noctis,’ Gladio hisses. A warning. ‘This better not be what I think it is.’

‘What?’ Noctis asks. ‘What do you think it is?’

He’s posturing up for a fight without even thinking about it. His voice is steady despite how his heart is ready to jump straight out of his ribcage to play cards with the best of them. Everything Noctis wants is dangling precariously.

Gladio actually pauses. ‘You’re breaking up with me.’

‘No one said that,’ Noctis says.

Gladio doesn’t look at him and it’s humiliating. It’s not exactly what Noctis was going for, but it makes him think if it’ll go the way he wants. Are Shields obligated to stay if their hearts have been broken?

‘You’re a selfish asshole,’ Gladio says passionately.

‘You don’t care enough about yourself,’ Noctis whispers.

He’s right, and he knows he’s right because Gladio is facing away from him with his back as taut as one of the ‘Glaives bowstrings. He’s shaking right along his outline. A statuesque man with a heart of gold that’s suffering.

They don’t end up breaking up. Noctis sits up from where he’s draped himself over his covers to hold Gladio gently in the curve of his arms, stroking his coarse beard and humming a lullaby written for his birth. He starts trembling because there’s nothing else for him to do than feel all of Gladio’s pain, curse of an empath, disaster of a heart.

Gladio lets him do that soft stuff they like to pretend doesn’t exist. He gets to kiss constellations against Gladio’s neck and nuzzle his cheeks, eyes closed, lips parted, but not distracted or seeking or traveling. It’s all very comforting and platonic, thumbs rubbing soothing circles against throats or shoulders. Even when they remove their shirts, it stays as simple. Two men searching for that promising future.

It’s throat-punched and fucked up in the end. Fate has a cruel way of manifesting, from the odd visions of a purple man with a red smeared mouth to the painfully real moments of each passing day. Losing a fight with the Gods who created them, begging Etro for passing forgiveness, and _praying_ to their dead and ungrateful ancestors for a break that’ll give them a little more time to be young.

‘I care about you even if you don’t,’ Noctis murmurs, naked, cold. ‘I’m here for you always.’

‘I was born to die for you,’ Gladio says. ‘That’s what I wanna do.’

It’s morbid. Unofficial wedding vows and all that, but Gladio plays the part of the priest as he makes Noctis swear up and down that they’ll be together forever through thick and thin with the blood of the covenant for as long as they both shall live. Noctis kisses both of their ring fingers to make it official and swoons when Gladio pushes his bangs back so he can plant a kiss right in the middle of Noctis’ big forehead.

It’s so sweet that it hurts his teeth.


End file.
